


Punishment

by AlacritiousEidolon (p_3a)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/AlacritiousEidolon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrathion struggles with his vices and his self-esteem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment

Wrathion made sure the door was locked, took his bloodgem out of its socket, and sat down at the desk.

This was something of an occasional routine for him. Whenever things got a little too much. Or perhaps he'd made a blunder with a champion, and needed to set the record straight with himself. He'd always been taught that people wouldn't learn unless you punished them for their misdeeds, and he'd largely found it to be true. Today, it was more a case of he'd simply built far too much tension for his liking - everything was  _wrong_  somehow, he didn't have a  _plan_  yet, his personal relationships messy and-- well. If he was being honest with himself, the fact he appeared to have scared Anduin Wrynn away was weighing heavy on his emotions.

It was just like the other times he did this, he thought, as he took his knife in hand and tugged his armour away from his wrist. It was a spell. Like always, he would give a little of his blood in return for an illusion - this time, one of calm and collectedness.

The first cut was slow and shallow. He kept his eyes closed as he focused in on the sensation which was  _just_  enough, just enough sharp to really get  _through_  to him in a way so many things didn't. It was the same with the view on the Folly, in a way, or the way he slept in the fireplace when given a chance. What many would find overwhelming, he found comforting.

He opened his eyes and watched the blood seep over his skin for a few moments. Before it touched the table, he raised the fingers of his other hands and gently coaxed it back into his wrist. He didn't want to burn the inn down, after all.

He paused, breathing deeply. He didn't know whether this would leave scars. Most injuries he could heal easily with a little simple flesh-shaping - wounds on his dragon form were usually permanent, but his mortal form was malleable and, more importantly, easily susceptible to illusions. But the ones on his left wrist, the wrist he usually used for this both when summoning illusions for his champions and... well,  _now_ , were growing stubborn and indelible. He didn't like it.

He carried on anyway.

The second cut was deeper. This one, he dedicated less to the sensation and more to that absurd blunder he'd made where he'd actually  _tripped_  in front of his champion.  _Fallen_. How would any of them respect him if word had gotten out? How could he trust it hadn't already? He'd been foolish. Idiotic. And he deserved all the pain he could give himself for it.

A third soon followed. And a fourth.

The fifth was the last, and the worst. He was getting sloppy with keeping his blood off the desk; some dripped, thankfully, onto the cuff of his armour. He cared more about the tears rolling down his cheeks. They were stupid, but he supposed they only matched himself. Hoping to bring down the Legion, and not even having a concrete plan in motion already? Hopeless. Useless. Ridiculous.

He gave up and dropped the knife. He couldn't even do  _this_  neatly. How  _awful_  he was...


End file.
